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Ucuetis of the hammer and tongs, strong of arm
and sure of strike, god of forge and furnace,
master of the anvil’s art, I offer you my praise.
Ucuetis, in times long gone you heard the prayers
of those whose work it is to arm the soldier,
to shoe the horse, to make bright gold and stone
into treasures to adorn a queen’s smooth throat
or enrich a king’s hoard. Your temple stood,
Ucetius, beneath the crafters’ hall, the sound
of sledge on iron ringing out, a wordless hymn.
Lord of the uncertain lands, lord of the smithy,
shaper of men and of metal, I honor you.